Overkill pr-1

by James Barrington

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s it. Have a good trip.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ Richter said. ‘I arrived here on a motorcycle. Can either of you ride it back to Hammersmith for me?’

  ‘I’ve got a licence,’ Clayton said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Far corner of the car park,’ Richter said, passing over the keys and eyeing Clayton’s city suit. ‘The helmet’s locked to the seat, and there’s a pair of weatherproof coveralls in the pannier. I know it’s old, but I’m attached to that bike, so please try not to bend it.’

  ‘Right.’

  They stood up, shook hands with Richter because that’s what businessmen do, and left. The briefcase Deacon had been carrying stayed under the table. It was a neat black leather attaché case, complete with a handcuff and keys allowing it to be chained to the wrist. Richter wondered if he would be able to hang on to it after the job was over.

  Jelenia Góra, Poland

  Despite an early start, the convoy encountered increasingly heavy traffic after leaving Wroclaw. As they approached the major junction at Jelenia Góra, where the roads from Wroclaw, Prague, Görlitz and Boleslawiec meet, they saw the reason. Two lorries had met more or less head-on, and the rescue services were still trying to cut one of the drivers free. Although they had dragged the other vehicle to the side of the road, the junction was partially blocked, and the police were filtering traffic through one lane at a time.

  Modin briefly considered taking the road to Görlitz and directly into Germany, bypassing Czechoslovakia altogether – a variation on the route suggested by Viktor Bykov the previous evening – but again rejected the idea. With the cargo they were carrying, the planned route still seemed the safest. So, they waited in the queue with all the other vehicles, and took their turn across the junction.

  Dover

  Richter looked round the car park, spotted a dark grey Scorpio in the far corner, and walked over to it. He checked the registration number, unlocked it, opened the door and climbed in. Inside, he opened up the briefcase and examined the contents. The ferry tickets were in the name of Beatty, and Simpson had thoughtfully provided a diplomatic passport in the same name, bearing a reasonable photograph of Richter’s face before Yuri had started work on it. There was, as Deacon had said, a letter addressed to Sir James Auden, British Embassy, Paris, stamped ‘Strictly Personal, Private and Confidential’ and sealed with wax. The copy for Richter’s information was in a separate envelope, also sealed.

  Richter signed the two credit cards and put them in his wallet, together with the cash which amounted to about £500 in euros. He also found a permit issued by the Metropolitan Police, and endorsed by a senior Gendarmerie officer, in the name of Beatty authorizing the carriage of the Smith and Wesson, and a personal search exemption certificate which, together with the diplomatic passport, should avoid any problems with Customs on either side of the Channel. The FOE file was enclosed in two sealed envelopes, one large and one slightly smaller, as is mandatory for classified files which are taken out of a secure building. Richter wouldn’t open that until he reached his destination.

  He stepped out of the Ford, glanced round the car park to check that he wasn’t being observed, opened the boot and dropped the haversack inside. From the suitcase of clothes he extracted a dark blue blazer which he swapped for his leather jacket. He had to wear a jacket simply because of the shoulder holster, and the blazer was more in keeping with the Granada than the motorcycle jacket would have been.

  Richter started the car and drove down into Dover. He found his way to the Eastern Docks, where he presented his ticket and was directed into a line of other vehicles waiting to board the Calais ferry. Twenty-five minutes later he was aboard the P&O vessel and sitting in a corner seat in the Club Class lounge.

  Richter ordered coffee, but ignored the newspapers and opened the briefcase. He made sure he couldn’t be overlooked, then read the copy letter of introduction to the Ambassador at the British Embassy in Paris. He read it twice, then put it into his jacket pocket. Immediately before disembarkation he would visit the loo, tear the letter into very small pieces and flush it away. That was not the recommended disposal method for a document of that classification, but entirely adequate in the circumstances.

  He also looked at the faxed confirmation of his accommodation arrangements, and could immediately see what Tony Deacon had meant. The Cashier had booked Richter four nights in a cabin at Davy Crockett Ranch, one of the accommodation areas at the Disneyland Paris resort. However, a note attached to the fax from Simpson showed that the decision had received his approval, and there were actually good reasons for it.

  First, Disneyland Paris was directly linked to the centre of the city, where only an idiot or a Frenchman would drive a car, by the very efficient rail system – the RER – which meant that Richter could reach the British Embassy in well under an hour. Second, by the very nature of the place, the car parks at Disneyland were always occupied by a varied selection of vehicles from all countries in Europe, so the Granada would be less likely to stand out there than it would in Paris itself. Third, Richter’s battered face would be less conspicuous in the relative privacy of a log cabin in a wood than in some left-bank hotel. Finally, Richter thought, bearing in mind the general absence of any sense of humour in the Russian psyche, Disneyland was not a place where they would be likely to look for him.

  Overall, it was probably a good choice.

  10 Downing Street, London

  ‘How certain are you about this?’ the grey-haired man asked. It was the first thing he had said since Simpson had stopped speaking three minutes earlier.

  Sir Michael Geraghty, the current ‘C’ – Secret Intelligence Service chief – looked across at Simpson, who was sitting on his left, in front of the desk in the Prime Minister’s private office. ‘It’s assessed as Grade One intelligence, Prime Minister,’ Simpson replied. He didn’t need to explain further. All British Prime Ministers are required to be familiar with the terminology and procedures of the intelligence services, and the Cabinet’s most secret intelligence group, the Overseas and Defence Committee, is chaired by the Prime Minister.

  The grey-haired man nodded. He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes, then replaced the glasses and looked over at Simpson. ‘You’re quite certain?’ he asked again. ‘There’s no possibility of any kind of error? It’s not some form of deception operation or anything of that kind?’

  Simpson shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Geraghty cleared his throat and replied first. ‘We’re quite satisfied that what Simpson’s organization has uncovered is a real and potent threat to the security of the Western alliance and, more importantly, to Great Britain, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘Simpson has outlined the measures he has put in train to resolve the immediate problem, that of the weapon intended for London, but that does not—’

  ‘I appreciate that, Sir Michael,’ the Prime Minister interrupted. ‘I just wanted to be absolutely sure.’ He picked up a fountain pen from the silver holder in front of him and removed the cap. He wrote a short note on a sheet of paper and then replaced the pen. ‘I was aware,’ he said, ‘from the last JIC meeting that the CIA was very disturbed about something going on in Russia. Now that Mr Simpson’s group has identified the substance of the threat, we at least know what we are up against. What is not clear to me at the moment is what we can do about it. Obviously this matter will have to be discussed at Cabinet level,’ he added, ‘and we will need to carefully consider our military options. Apart from the operation in France, what other measures would you think appropriate?’

  Sir Michael Geraghty shook his head. ‘There is little more that the intelligence services can do, Prime Minister. We have no direct access – official or unofficial – to the SVR or GRU, and even if we had I don’t know what steps we could take to resolve the situation. In my view, the only possible actions available to us now are political and military. Political, to put pressure on the Kremlin to stop thi
s operation before it can be implemented, and military to provide a viable counter to the threat in the event that political persuasion fails.’

  The Prime Minister nodded. ‘The Independent Nuclear Deterrent?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ Simpson said. ‘We park two of our missile-carrying nuclear submarines off the Russian coast and tell the Kremlin that if they implement this nasty little plan we’ll reduce the CIS to radioactive rubble.’

  ‘Er, quite,’ Geraghty said, looking a little startled. ‘Somewhat colourfully put, but Simpson has, I think, expressed it rather well.’

  American Embassy, 2 avenue Gabriel, Paris

  Westwood was just finishing an early lunch in the Embassy commissary when Miles Turner hurried in. ‘We’ve just received this Immediate signal from Langley, John, marked for your attention,’ Turner said, handing over the flimsy.

  Westwood took the paper and read the single line of text: ‘CONFERENCE CALL SCHEDULED FOR 0700 EST.’

  ‘What time is the meeting with DGSE, Miles?’ Westwood asked, looking at his watch and juggling time zones in his head.

  ‘Three, local time. Zero seven hundred Eastern Standard Time is one o’clock here – that’s in fifteen minutes – so unless the conference is very long it shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Right,’ Westwood said, swallowing the last of his ice cream, ‘let’s get down to the Communications Room.’

  Jakuszyce (Polish/Czechoslovakian border)

  Modin had hoped that the traffic would diminish once they had cleared the accident site, but they still made very slow progress. The journey from Jelenia Góra to Jakuszyce took over two hours, and there was a queue at least a mile in length at the border itself. When the convoy finally came to a halt, Bykov and Modin climbed out of the limousine and walked up to the lead Mercedes. The Spetsnaz officer in charge got out of the car and awaited orders.

  ‘Go forward to the border,’ Modin instructed. ‘Show the border guards your diplomatic passport and advise – no, tell – them that this is a diplomatic convoy which must not be delayed. Tell them,’ he added, ‘that if we are still not cleared through the border within thirty minutes, I will personally file a report individually naming every single border guard and accusing them of gross dereliction of duty and wilfully obstructing a diplomatic mission.’

  The Spetsnaz officer nodded and hurried off. Modin wondered if the threat would be taken seriously. Russia no longer had the sway over her satellites that she had once enjoyed.

  Fifteen minutes later, with all eastbound traffic halted and the road cleared, the convoy was waved through the Polish border and, almost without a pause, across the Czechoslovakian frontier as well.

  American Embassy, 2 avenue Gabriel, Paris

  There was a problem with the secure satellite link between Langley and CIA London, and it was almost zero seven fifteen Eastern Standard Time, thirteen fifteen Central European Time, before the conference call circuit was completed.

  ‘Basically, John,’ Walter Hicks began, ‘this is an update briefing on RAVEN and his last message. We think we may know a bit more about him now. OK, Cliff, this is your ball.’

  ‘Right,’ Masters replied. ‘First, we looked again at RAVEN. We still don’t know who he is, but now we think we know what he is. We believe he’s a Russian with a conscience and a bad case of guilt.’

  ‘Come again?’ Abrahams asked.

  ‘We ran the entire sequence of events, and sanitized copies of the messages, past three of our tame shrinks. The most significant single factor, they agreed, was the last message. The initial stuff we received was high-grade intelligence, no question, and obviously RAVEN had had plenty of time to prepare it and to make the deliveries to Rigby. The message placed in Rigby’s car,’ he continued, ‘was different. That showed definite signs of haste. A man in a hurry, or a man who thought he might be observed. A frightened man, perhaps, or one who had just learned what was going on. The last message, though, was more like the earlier stuff. It was a note again, not a film, but obviously RAVEN had been able to prepare it at his leisure.’

  ‘So?’ Westwood asked.

  ‘So if that is an accurate assessment, why is the message so cryptic? He could have said “bomb” or “nerve gas” instead of “component”, and told us exactly what the threat really is. He could have been specific about the “implementation”. Are we talking about an actual invasion, or a first-strike or some other kind of threat?’

  ‘I follow you,’ Westwood said. ‘You mean that RAVEN could have told us precisely what the operation comprises, but something – his loyalty to Mother Russia or whatever – held him back.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Masters said. ‘What we have here, the shrinks believe, is a Russian who doesn’t like what is happening, but who is still not prepared to go the whole hog and completely betray his homeland. He’s salving his conscience by providing us with data, but not enough for him to feel like a traitor. He probably thinks that if we work out what’s going on and stop it, he will have helped us in the name of humanity, or something like that. On the other hand, if we don’t solve the problem and the implementation or whatever goes ahead, then he can step back and say, “Well, I tried, but they just weren’t smart enough.”’

  ‘OK,’ said Westwood. ‘I guess we’d better make sure that we are smart enough. That helps a little with RAVEN. What about the message – or rather what it says?’

  ‘It’s still puzzling,’ Masters said, ‘and it looks as if we are dealing with a most unconventional assault – if that really is the right word. The fact that a “component” is being delivered to the West does not suggest a first-strike, or anything involving a normal weapon delivery system – missile, aircraft, submarine or whatever. It seems more likely to us that we’re talking about a slow and conventional form of transport.’

  ‘What, a ship or train or something?’ Abrahams asked.

  ‘Exactly. It looks like whatever this weapon is, it’s being mailed to us.’

  Abrahams laughed, briefly, then stopped.

  ‘I’m still listening,’ Westwood said. ‘What you say makes sense. Presumably the delay between the component entering the West, as RAVEN puts it, and the plan to be implemented, is to allow time for the weapon to be placed in position and primed or whatever.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hicks interrupted, ‘and for an ultimatum to be delivered.’

  After a brief silence, Westwood spoke again. ‘I agree with your conclusions. What I’m not sure about is where we go from here. We have no idea – I presume – about exactly what this “component” is, what it looks like, where it’s coming from or where it’s going to, so where do we start looking? And how the hell do we find it by tomorrow?’

  ‘There’s another problem,’ Hicks growled. ‘RAVEN’s message refers to the “last component”, which implies that there are others already in place. Finding and stopping delivery of the final component may not stop the implementation of whatever the hell this operation is.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Cliff Masters said. ‘If what we’re looking at is a number of bombs that are already strategically placed in American cities, whether the last one actually gets delivered to Washington or wherever is irrelevant. There could already be a high enough tonnage of weapons in place to ensure that the President would have no option but to accede to whatever demands are made.’

  ‘You believe that?’ Westwood asked. ‘You believe the President would just roll over and play dead?’

  ‘He might have no option,’ Hicks replied. ‘Put yourself in his position. If the Russians announce that they’ve positioned one strategic-yield nuclear weapon in the centre of every major city in the States, and that they’re going to detonate them unless he agrees to whatever they want, what else can he do?’

  ‘It would be a first-strike without any warning,’ Masters added. ‘There could be no warning, because the weapons are already here. The first we would know about it would be the detonation of the first bomb.’

  ‘I’m having a job coping wit
h this,’ Westwood said. ‘If you’re right, then this completely negates all of our defences.’

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ Hicks replied. ‘I’ve had two meetings with the President already, and he’s quite prepared to go to the edge on this. We’ve already discussed the military preparations he’s approved. The threat of us implementing those measures might be enough to defuse this situation.’

  ‘It might,’ Westwood said, ‘but I wouldn’t put any money on it. Any progress with that Russian word – Pripisha or whatever it was?’

  ‘Pripiska,’ Hicks said. ‘No. We’re still looking into it, but so far nobody here has had any bright ideas.’

  ‘So what the hell are we going to do?’ John Westwood asked, leaning back in the padded chair in the Paris Embassy Communications Room. The room was air-conditioned and cool, but he was sweating.

  ‘OK,’ Walter Hicks said. ‘What we need is data – any data. At the moment, we have no idea what we’re up against. What I don’t believe is that nobody’s noticed anything. Christ, we’ve got spy satellites peering into everyone’s backyard, we’ve got the NSA reading just about every diplomatic signal that passes through the States, and the British GCHQ listening-in every time somebody takes a crap. Somebody, somewhere, must know something.

  ‘John, you have to lean on the French. Forget about diplomacy, protocol, Gallic sensitivity and all the rest. Kick ass if you have to, but get some answers. Roger, the same applies to you in London. Get back on to that Taylor guy and get SIS moving. You’ve both got top weight on this – I’ve already talked to SIS and the DGSE, and the President will be calling the British Prime Minister and the French President today.’ There was silence for a moment or two. ‘Questions?’ Hicks asked.

  ‘No,’ Westwood replied, echoed a second later by Abrahams.